


a singing meditation

by elizabethgee



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, Graphic Descriptions of Torture, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Geralt, Kaer Morhen, M/M, Protective Jaskier, Slow Burn, it will be fluffy eventually, mentions of suicide but only in dreams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:22:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26689606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethgee/pseuds/elizabethgee
Summary: (the obligatory "going to Kaer Morhen" fic)He keeps himself braced, waiting for Jaskier to ask after the cause of his breakdown, but the question never comes. Jaskier just sits near him, scribbling away at his journal as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Geralt wonders, not for the first time, why Jaskier puts up with him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 59
Kudos: 281





	1. 1.

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory going to Kaer Morhen for the winter fic.  
> The first chapter is pretty violent, so if you want to avoid the most graphic bits skip over the italic sections! :)

His fingers are numb, pinching against the damp pages of a leather journal. He’s lost track of time, sucked into a horror show written in fine, impersonal writing.

By the time he reaches the end of the macabre entries, his shoulders are a steel wall and his teeth groan under the clench of his jaw.

Aching hands close the book and place it in his bag. It sits there, a stain amongst his possessions, deceptively innocent looking. His heart is a cornered rabbit in his chest, but his senses tell him that he is the only living being currently inhabiting this disgusting cave.

He finds little of use when he searches the cavern’s nooks and crannies. His eyes scour from the high ceilings to the small, jagged rocks piercing upwards from the slippery ground, but all he can find is some ink, boots too small for either him or Jaskier, and molding bread and seeds. His traitorous eyes keep darting back to the barred enclosure in the deepest recess of the cave, drawn as though by a magnet. Underneath the damp ocean smell is the reek of blood and piss and sick, wafting from that small space with the rolling ocean air.

A shaky breath pulls from his lungs and he grips his bag, marching toward the entrance, legs leaden as he tries, desperately, to shove away any thought of the witcher that was held there— so close to freedom, only to be denied it.

The cool sea air tastes sweeter to him than normal, and he braces himself against a rocky outcrop away from the cave’s entrance. Cool ocean air stings his face, and he finds that he doesn’t mind the damp that seeps beneath the joints of his armor.

The walk back to their temporary camp is a lost memory, and he only comes back to himself when he catches sight of Jaskier. Geralt pauses and stands just outside of Jaskier’s human senses, watching him for a moment.

Warm firelight illuminates Jaskier’s form— the bard’s handsome face furrowed in concentration as he scribbles in his notepad. He’s probably writing something flowery and outlandish about their last contract— a siren in Toussaint. Geralt wants to hear it.

_Don’t give people more reason to call us freaks,_ Lambert’s voice whispers in his mind. A muscle in his cheek flinches and he steps into Jaskier’s eyeline, watching relief smooth out the tension in the bard’s brow.

“Geralt! You’ve been gone for ages,” Jaskier puts his journal aside and stands, eyes doing the now familiar scan for injuries.

“Did you find anything?”

Geralt’s voice abandons him and he resorts to shaking his head and turning to hide himself from Jaskier, fussing with his bag and hoping Jaskier won’t ask any questions.

No luck.

“Are you okay,” Jaskier asks, boots crackling against the damp forest floor as he moves closer.

“You’re not injured, are you?”

“I’m fine,” Geralt grumbles, voice scraping out of his throat.

It’s an obvious lie, but Jaskier just places a bowl of soup by the fire and moves back to his journal.

Geralt sits heavily, not ready to remove his armor. He takes the warm wood bowl in his hands and stares into it’s depths. There are vegetables floating in a thin broth, some type of grain swirling around in the depths.

His eyes snag on his open bag— the worn leather book lit with firelight. The hideous words hidden within echoing in his mind—

" _Starvation has no effect on the subject._

_He seems predisposed to enduring the denial of basic necessities,_

_and he lasted much longer than any human before falling into unconsciousness."_

Geralt puts the bowl down carefully, standing and walking several paces away from their camp until he reaches the tree line. Jaskier calls his name. Geralt braces a hand on the trunk of a tree and falls to his knees, gagging, spitting up bile and water.

Who was it? Who was the witcher that endured this torture? Who was the man who inflicted it? What was the reasoning for it? The journal entries ended so abruptly, what happened to them?

Lambert. Eskel. If it were either of them…

His thoughts spin a contorted web, uncontrollable and spiralling—

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice calls him from far away. He latches onto the sound— the one safe human who follows him anywhere and treats his wounds with such a caring, gentle touch. The bard’s soft eyes and hands, dismayed by every scratch and scrape the witcher endures—

" _The skin pulls away with heated pinchers, and the subject reacts the same way a human does._

_The subject cries and screams and pleads for the pain to end._

_More testing will be required to test the subjects limits—"_

He gags again, throat burning and ribs heaving.

“Geralt, darling, what can I do to help,” Jaskier asks. Geralt grimaces, curling his shoulders in against the kindness—

Jaskier’s soft hand touches his back, low on his side when the armor gapes open. The warmth of his skin seeps through Geralt’s shirt and he can’t stop himself from lashing out, gripping Jaskier’s wrist and pulling.

He lands on top of the bard, covering him and pining them to the soft earth.

Jaskier’s soft “oof” of surprise makes him flinch, but as he starts to move away warm, strong arms wrap around Geralt’s shoulders, holding him close.

“Don’t,” Jaskier says, fingers scrabbling at his armor.

Geralt freezes.

“Come here,” Jaskier implores, tugging softly at his shoulders.

Geralt relaxes into Jaskier’s arms, burying his nose against the bard’s neck, drowning himself in the soft, familiar smell of Jaskier’s skin, the warmth of his body, the quick thrum of his heart. He’s so different from Geralt—so human. And he’s _safe_.

Entirely without his consent he groans a wounded animal sound, hands sliding between the earth and Jaskier’s waist to clutch at the fabric of his doublet.

Jaskier hushes him, hands running up to his hair and smoothing through the strands. He must be uncomfortable pinned beneath the heavy witcher in his full armor, but Jaskier doesn’t say anything, just hums and breathes, petting along Geralt’s hair.

Geralt wants to go home. He wants to see his brothers, and hear Vesemir’s monotonous, redundant lessons. He wants to rib Lambert for his terrible cooking and tease Eskel for his loving care of the animals they keep. Geralt wants to take Jaskier with him and keep the bard in his bedroom. Ridiculous wet heat springs to his eyes at the childish thoughts.

_"The subject mimics humanity well— using words to try and barter for its freedom._

_But I’ve been given full permission to resort to any means necessary_

_to achieve the objective, and my goal will be realized._

_I'm firm in my resolve, and I’m getting closer as the days progress._

_This witcher is proving_ _to be_ _the most ample_ _breed of monster yet."_

He huffs out a breath, pressing his face closer to Jaskier’s.

“Sing,” he asks, voice strangled and weak in the night air. Jaskier complies immediately.

It’s a simple, easy song, and Geralt latches onto it— focusing his mind on Jaskier’s familiar, charming voice. His voice is the perfect anchor for meditation, and he sinks willingly into the void.

He loses time again, but Jaskier is still singing when he reaches a sufficient point of calm. Geralt shifts his face against Jaskier’s neck and waits until the song ends. Before Jaskier can start another tune, Geralt mumbles an embarrassed ‘thank you.’

Jaskier jolts, surprised by his voice, but his fingers don’t stop running through his hair.

“Feel up to moving closer to the fire,” he asks.

Geralt nods, stomach sour at the thought of Jaskier being cold, stuck beneath a witcher having a meltdown. His limbs are weak in the aftermath of his stress, but Jaskier doesn’t say anything and just saunters back to their campsite. He holds up the bowl of soup, kept warm by the fire's heat.

“Do you think you can eat?”

Geralt nods, cheeks flushing.

Once he starts eating, he finds that he cannot stop until it’s all gone. Putting the cleaned bowl aside, he stands and removes his armor, going through the paces of cleaning and rubbing down the leather.

He keeps himself braced, waiting for Jaskier to ask after the cause of his breakdown, but the question never comes. Jaskier just sits near him, scribbling away at his journal as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Geralt wonders, not for the first time, why Jaskier puts up with him.

This bard, who calls him ‘darling’ and sleeps next to him without reservation when there’s only one bed available. Jaskier, who defends Geralt vehemently, violently, when he hears people whisper and snarl at him.

“Jaskier,” he starts.

“Hmm,” Jaskier asks, eyes warm and glittering when he looks up from his journal.

What does he say?

“It’s almost winter,” he says. The words register on Jaskier’s face, and something complicated happens, but the bard ducks his head down so Geralt can’t see.

“Yes, I know. You’ll start the return to Kaer Morhen in the next couple weeks.”

“What will you do,” Geralt asks. _Come with me_ , he thinks, desperately.

Jaskier sighs.

“I’ll probably go to Oxenfurt and apply for a short term position for the winter. "

His voice is a high, forced cheerfulness that makes Geralt’s teeth grate.

“It’ll be incredibly dull, truth be told,” Jaskier admits, frowning down at his journal.

“But I’ll have time to work on some new songs, so when I see you after winter I can serenade you with all my new masterpieces.”

The smile he shoots Geralt over the flames is painful.

“Come with me.”

The words stumble out of his mouth like a newborn foal and Jaskier's mouth drops open in shock.

“Sorry,” he asks, and Geralt shoves down the sudden lump in his throat.

“Come with me. To Kaer Morhen. For winter.”

Jaskier blinks at him, quill hovering frozen over his journal.

Geralt can’t stand his burning gaze any longer and looks down at his armor, studying the silver spikes with too much intensity.

“Okay.”

Geralt’s eyes snap back up to the bard. Did Jaskier just agree to go with him?

“Okay,” he asks, lips numb.

“I’d be honored to join you,” Jaskier says, and he smiles at Geralt— a soft, shy, delighted smile that warms Geralt’s belly far better than any soup could.

“It’ll be a difficult journey,” Geralt says, and his mind snarls at him to _shut up_. Why is he trying to discourage Jaskier after he’s answered in exactly the way Geralt was hoping for?

“I know,” Jaskier says, eyes dancing.

“Winters in Kaer Morhen are hard.”

“I can carry my weight.”

“I know,” Geralt protests, irritated that Jaskier thought his statement was a sleight.

“Okay, it’s settled then,” Jaskier grins, snapping his journal shut. “I’ll join you.”


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt can't sleep, and Jaskier helps him meditate.

Geralt doesn’t sleep well that night— waking up with every shift of the wind, mind full of questions with no answers. He feels like a cheat, being free. How luxurious it is to be able to stand and walk anywhere he wants— to find food and pet Roach's velvet nose and polish his armor— while the unknown witcher was confined and tortured in a damp cave for an indeterminate amount of time. Are they alive? Were they tortured to death? What happened to their body? He stares up into the starlit sky, unable to stop the questions from weaving their intricate, patternless webs.

He gets up as soon as dawn peers over the horizon. Brought to consciousness by Geralt’s shuffling around, Jaskier gives him a suspicious look but he doesn’t say anything— just sets about heating water and handing Geralt some dried fruit and nuts from their meager stash of foodstuffs.

It’s only when they’ve eaten and Geralt has packed their things onto Roach’s saddle that Jaskier raises a question as to their destination.

“There’s a tavern to the north east, in a small town called Gwenllech. We’ll meet Eskel there, unless he’s busy with a contract. We need to replenish our supplies for the journey, and that’s the last place to stop before he head into the northern mountains.”

He practically feels the gears turning in Jaskier’s curious artist brain. Geralt rarely speaks of his brothers, and when he does it’s perfunctory. Jaskier will surely get a lot of new stories out of his more verbose brothers, and Geralt intentionally ignores the stab of jealousy that shoots through him with the thought.

“It’s three day’s walk to Gwenllech, we should head out now,” Geralt says, tugging the strap around his waist a bit too tight.

\---

Jaskier flops onto the small, lumpy mattress, sighing heavily.

“It’s nice to be on a mattress,” he says, rolling to his side and curling into a ball.

“Enjoy it while you can,” Geralt says, pulling his swords off his back with relief. It had been a long three days, and Geralt had pushed them a bit more than he normally would. He hasn’t travelled with a human to Kaer Morhen before, and he wants to arrive a bit early. Maybe they can avoid some of the worse weather on the way up…

Hopefully Eskel shows up early as well.

“What, you don’t have beds in Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier asks, stretching out on his back, arching and sighing as his sore muscles loosen up.

“We have beds. Large ones,” Geralt says, and his mind stalls as he conjures up the image of Jaskier as he is now— reclined and smiling, but in Geralt’s own bed— amongst thick, heavy blankets and warm candlelight.

“Oh,” Jaskier asks, quirking a brow as though he knows exactly what Geralt is thinking. Geralt clenches his jaw, willing away the spark that lights in his chest.

“It’s just that the journey is rough. There won’t be any mattresses along the way,” Geralt grumbles pulling his armor off his shoulders.

“C’mon,” Jaskie says, rolling out of bed, “I heard someone in town mention their harvest soup and I’d like to form my own opinion.”

“I can’t wait to meet your brothers,” Jaskier says, watching the patrons mill about the small common room. The harvest soup was indeed very good— full of hearty grains and well cooked beans, root vegetables and fresh herbs. But now Geralt feels his eyes drooping in exhaustion. Having missed several nights sleep and been unable to meditate, he finds it difficult to focus, even as Jaskier bubbles with excitement across the table.

“Do you think they’ll like me,” Jaskier suddenly asks, nails picking at the rough wooden tabletop.

“Doesn’t matter if they like you,” Geralt grumbles, blinking rapidly to keep himself awake.

Geralt senses that he’s said something hurtful judging by Jaskier’s sudden stillness and he hurries to clarify.

“Their opinion doesn’t change anything,” he tries, staring into the murky depths of his drink. Soft, poet’s fingers ghost over the back of his palm.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, warm voice making Geralt’s stomach twist, and Geralt nods into his ale.

“You seem tired,” Jaskier murmurs, as though afraid that Geralt will snap at him.

“Can’t sleep,” he admits, hoping the bard will drop it.

“I haven’t seen you meditate in three days,” Jaskier points out, and Geralt curses Jaskier’s observant nature.

He just nods and jerks at a loud, raucous burst of laughter from the table next to them. Jaskier watches him for a long moment, then throws the last of his drink back (and Geralt does not stare at the long, smooth column of his neck, the contraction of his throat as he swallows—) and stands, nudging Geralt’s shoulder.

“Come on, I have an idea.”

Geralt sighs, not bothering to finish his own drink before standing and following Jaskier back up to their room.

Jaskier stokes a fire in their fireplace, then grabs his worn old notebook, his pen, and a pillow. He lies on his belly in front of the fire, pillow tucked under his chest, and looks up at Geralt.

Geralt stands by the door, blinking stupidly at him.

“Well,” Jaskier says, expectant. “Join me?”

Geralt is tired. He wants to sleep. He doesn’t want to meditate because he knows where his mind will go and he doesn’t want to think about—

“It’s just us in this room, and the fire is warm, and we have a soft bed. Please join me,” Jaskier says, watching him with coaxing eyes. He’s so inviting, laying vulnerable on his belly by the warmth light, and Geralt feels his resolve splinter.

He sighs, ignoring Jaskier’s pleased smile and kneeling in front of the fire, leaving a respectable space between them. He braces himself on his knees, hands dropping to the top of his thighs and rolling his shoulders back and down, forcing the tension away in a well practiced ritual established as a child.

He glances at the bard once more, but Jaskier is already scribbling away at his notebook. His brown hair glitters red and orange with firelight, and his skin is flushed from warm food and the safety of being indoors. He looks soft and tempting, and Geralt quickly closes his eyes, turning his face towards the fire.

Immediately he’s overwhelmed by memories of the cave— the damp, sick smell, the crashing ocean waves that would mask even the loudest animal cry, the _cage_ —

He huffs angrily, squeezing his eyes closed and clenching his fists against his thighs.

The pen stops scratching and Jaskier’s hand ghosts over one of Geralt’s hands where they’ve turned to fists against his thighs.

“Breathe,” Jaskier says, and his writing continues. Geralt takes a slow, deep breath, uncurling his fists and focusing on the feeling of rough fabric against his palms.

" _The subject goes quiet and unnaturally still at dawn and dusk._

_I haven’t discovered the purpose of this predatory stillness, but I’m sure I have the tools to extract the purpose from the subject, given enough time._

_The subject becomes violent and fakes tears on the second week of being denied the stillness—"_

His teeth grate and he rolls his shoulders back from where they’ve climbed upwards.

" _The subject uses mimicry well, faking human emotions so effectively that even the greatest man would be fooled._

_It is a good ruse—"_

The growl tears from his chest and he blinks into the fire. Before he can stand, Jaskier shifts closer to him, pressing the side of his ribcage against Geralt’s knee. It’s enough to make Geralt pause, eye fixating on the vibrant cloth of Jaskier’s doublet. Jaskier doesn’t say anything— doesn’t even look at him— just keeps writing. 

Geralt takes a steadying breath and squeezes his eyes closed again, focusing on the heat of Jaskier’s side against his thigh— the way his ribcage expands and contracts with breath. Geralt frowns, focusing hard on what he can hear and shoving everything else away. Jaskier’s breath is the first thing he notices— steady, slow, and sure. Then there’s the scratching of Jaskier’s pen against paper, constant and crisp, and the warm crackle of the fire. His focus shifts to Jaskier’s familiar smell, in need of a bath but far from unpleasant. He’s safe, in this tavern, with his friend. And he's so tired...

\---

He doesn’t know how much time passes, but Jaskier shifts next to him and Geralt reaches down without thinking, pinning a hand to Jaskier’s back.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jaskier whispers, “I just need to readjust.”

Geralt blinks his eyes open, glancing down to find Jaskier twisting onto his side, pillow shifted to cradle Jaskier’s head.

The dark of night has filled their room, the fire has reduced to glowing coals in the hearth.

“Sorry,” Geralt says, “didn’t know that much time had passed.”

Jaskier waves the concern away, though his eyelids droop with exhaustion. Geralt feels a tug in his belly, aching to curl around Jaskier in front of the fire and fall into sleep.

He stands instead, stretching out his cramped legs.

“Bed,” he says, and Jaskier is quick to follow suite.

They’ve shared beds many times, so they forego the awkward shuffle of figuring out how another person sleeps and simply fall onto the mattress.

Geralt slips into unconsciousness.

_He wakes in a familiar cage. Rough, damp stones dig into his back._

_He stands slowly, legs aching and pulling as though covered in molasses._

_The ocean crashes, barely out of sight, the roar of water echoing down to his bones._

_It smells of blood. He looks down and finds himself covered in vibrant, sticky red— hot and flowing from open wounds across his chest that don't hurt—_

_“Monster.”_

_The voice echoes and grates in the wet cavern, and Geralt looks up, hands soaked in his own blood. There’s a man just outside the barred cage, face smudged like wet ink. The borders of him blur and jitter, intangible and out of focus._

_Geralt tries to speak, to ask who the stranger is, but no sound comes out. He reaches a hand up, slow and desperate. His fingers sink into a gaping wound in his throat— going past his vocal cords, down to his spine—_

_He tries again to say anything, anything at all, but nothing happens. He can’t breathe—_

_“I knew you were a monster.”_

_Hot, slick liquid pours across his hands and he brings them down to stare at his own flesh, opening his mouth to scream when he sees the thick, jagged claws growing out of his own nail beds—_

“Geralt.”

Geralt jolts upright, hand jumping his throat. The flesh is whole and unmarred, prickly with stubble.

“Geralt?”

Jaskier is watching him, wide eyed, outstretched hand hovering over his shoulder. Geralt looks down at his own hands— staring at the blunt, soft nails— and feels foolish.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, turning and pressing his feet into the cold floor, hiding his face.

“Are you okay,” Jaskier asks, voice wobbling in the dark night air.

“Go back to sleep,” Geralt says, standing and retreating to the bathing room.

Jaskier makes a protesting noise behind him, but doesn’t follow. The bard has already comforted him enough. He shouldn’t have to deal with this as well.

Geralt washes his face roughly, icy water shocking him back into his own skin. He grips the side of the bathing room cabinet and looks up, staring into the warped silver mirror. He looks horrible— exhausted gold cat eyes trailing along his pale face, the inhuman white hair clinging to his skin in damp strands, the sharp teeth behind his lips. The wolf medallion sticks to the sweat on his chest, shimmering, taunting.

_Monster._

Fuck.


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier meets Eskel, and Geralt remembers just how sharp his brother can be.

They spend the next day wandering leisurely through the small town of Gwenllech, acquiring provisions for their trip. It’s a 2 week endeavor, however Geralt is betting it will be closer to 3 weeks with a human in their party. Watching Jaskier purchase a pair of fire red gloves, he spares a moment to worry about what Eskel will think of the bard joining their party in Kaer Morhen. The anxiety is easily brushed aside— Geralt knows his brother well and Eskel will take an immediate shine to Jaskier’s vibrant, cheerful nature. Not to mention that Eskel has always been…less reticent with expressing himself. Jaskier will thoroughly enjoy grilling Eskel on anything and everything.

Geralt makes sure to purchase extra foodstuffs; nuts, seeds, dried fruits, and some spiced jerky. He stocks up on balms and oils from the local apothecary, and insists on Jaskier buying a heavy cloak.

“You will need it,” Geralt growls through clenched teeth when Jaskier pouts.

“I don’t care if it’s not in the latest fashion,” Geralt says, crossing his arms and looming over the bard, “its purpose is to keep you from freezing to death. Buy. The. Cloak.”

Jaskier sighs dramatically, giving Geralt wide, reproachful eyes, but he hands over a rather hefty weight of coin to the pleased seamstress in exchange for a thick, well-made cloak.

\---

Once the town’s meager attractions have lost their appeal, they head back to their tavern, The Roosting Owl, and Jaskier starts up a quiet set in the center of the tavern’s large downstairs dining area. It’s not long before he has a decent audience, hovering nearby to soak in the warmth of his calm voice.

The tavernkeeper lights huge yellow candles and glittering lanterns in the bar area to stave off the dark, filling the space with gentle golden light. While Jaskier’s singing starts off low and calming, the gradual inebriation of the tavern’s inhabitants forces him into singing louder, more bawdy ballads, much to the people’s pleasure.

By the time the sun has set the majority of the crowd are well on their way to drunk. Geralt can always tell because tipsy humans ignore him while drunk humans either heckle him or observe him from afar with suspicious glares. He’s feeling particularly lucky this evening; no one bats an eye at his dark corner.

Another lucky event this evening— the food is decent. The kitchen is serving a thick, hearty stew and fresh brown bread. He eats enough for two, knowing what’s coming in the next weeks. He’ll have to make sure Jaskier eats a large portion as well before they retire.

A cold gust of wind drags his attention from Jaskier’s smile and his ribcage expands with air, tension he didn’t realize he was carrying melting away from his shoulders.

He would recognize Eskel’s silhouette anywhere. The witcher's broad form fills the entryway door, amber eyes skipping swiftly over curious humans before landing on Geralt. He smiles, his scarred visage transforming his face into the familiar younger brother of Geralt’s past.

He stands and grips Eskel’s armored shoulder hard as soon as he’s within reach.

“Geralt,” Eskel grins, returning Geralt’s gesture.

“Eskel,” Geralt greets, reassured by the strong weight of Eskel’s hand on his shoulder, “was going to leave without you.”

“No you weren’t,” Eskel contradicts, dropping his swords down next to Geralt’s and sitting heavily, kicking his booted feet out under the table and throwing Geralt a knowing look. He’s right, of course. They would have waited for him.

Geralt sits easily and pushes a full bowl of food across the table. He takes a moment to watch Eskel eat— shoveling down food like he hasn’t seen a decent meal in weeks. He probably hasn’t.

“Woulda been here yesterday but I got caught up in a contract over a wyvern three towns over,” Eskel says, mouth full.

“Hmm,” Geralt acknowledges, knowing that he’s staring too much but unable to stop himself. He finally acknowledges to himself the images he had been fighting back for the past several days— Eskel trapped in a cold, cavernous prison, deprived of food and water and meditation and—

His scent must sour, because Eskel’s sharp eyes jerk up to him, but Geralt jerks his gaze away before Eskel can speak. He locks his gaze on Jaskier and drinks in the sight of him like an elixir. He's composing an impromptu ballad for a loving couple, both of whom stare up at him with blushing cheeks and glittering eyes. The crowd crows and shrieks with glee at Jaskier's lyrics, pleased by whatever romantic (and probably raunchy) story he's weaving.

“This is your bard,” Eskel asks, and Geralt tears his gaze away from Jaskier to find Eskel watching the bard with keen eyes.

“Not mine,” Geralt grumbles, avoiding Eskel’s gaze.

“What’s he doing out here,” Eskel asks, ignoring Geralt’s protest.

Geralt grits his teeth, tension coiling back up his spine.

“I invited him to Kaer Morhen.”

Eskel smirks.

“Eskel,” Geralt warns, crossing his arms.

Eskel quickly reaches across the table and smacks Geralt’s shoulder, broad smile revealing familiar sharp teeth.

“Good idea. It’ll be great to have some new company this winter. And we won’t have to watch you pout for weeks on end like last year.”

Geralt shoots his brother an unamused glare but Eskel just goes back to his meal, smiling to himself.Sighing loudly, he lets his eyes wander back to Jaskier.

He’s nearing the end of his set, tiredness settling in his voice. Soon he’ll make his excuses and leave the now fairly drunk patrons to find new entertainment.

“He has a nice voice,” Eskel says, deep voice nonchalant even as his eyes watch Geralt closely.

“Don’t tell him that,” Geralt warns, trying to shrug off Eskel’s curious gaze, “he’ll never let you forget it.”

“You agree though,” Eskel points out. Geralt throws him a sharp look. He had forgotten how easily Eskel could figure out everyone else’s feelings before they could.

He wonders if he should bring up the cave along the coast of Talgar and the horrors he found there. It will have to be brought up eventually... it’s just a question of whether he brings it up now or waits until they make it to Kaer Morhen. He opens his mouth and pauses. There are fine lines along Eskel’s forehead that weren’t there last year. And if they were, they weren’t so prominent. And Geralt can smell fresh blood from a recently stitched wound.

The journal and all its sickness can wait a while longer. Geralt cannot sleep or meditate due to the journal's contents— it makes no sense to impose that on Eskel as well, especially when they have a long journey ahead of them

Jaskier finishes his performance to a jubilant round of applause and drunken cheers, accepting coin as he passes through the crowd towards the witcher’s corner.

His vibrant eyes glow as soon as he catches sight of Eskel and he wastes no time sliding into a seat next to Geralt, their shoulders smacking together with Jaskier’s enthusiasm.

“Hello! I didn’t see you come in. You must be Eskel! I’m Jaskier the bard,” Jaskier babbles, excitement pouring out of him.

“I would like to say I’ve heard so much about you but Geralt is horribly tight lipped about his brothers. I hope you don’t mind that I’m joining you this winter—“

“Nice to meet you, Jaskier,” Eskel mumbles through his shock. He glances at Geralt, blinking rapidly as though he’s just downed two bottles of White Gull. Geralt smirks at Eskel’s shock, hiding his face in his drink.

“Ah ha! You see, Geralt? I knew witchers could be polite,” Jaskier says, nudging their knees together beneath the table.

Geralt quirks an eyebrow at Jaskier’s antics, unwilling to admit he’s amused. Eskel’s surprise is refreshingly comical, and he’d like to bask in it for as long as possible.

Geralt knows his brother is unused to such easy welcome. In addition to his status as a witcher, Eskel frequently receives icy responses due to his extensive facial scarring. Whenever they’re together Eskel receives the most foul looks, and Geralt gets huffy and rude in response, hating how easily humans judge based on physical appearance.

Geralt watches Eskel struggle to process Jaskier’s instant acceptance and lack of fear. Geralt has grown used to Jaskier’s ease in his presence, but Eskel’s reaction reminds him of when he first met Jaskier. The bard's simple approval is breathtaking and confusing— Geralt really didn’t know how to process it for quite a while. Eskel will acclimate quickly. Judging by the easing tension in his gaze as Jaskier babbles with excitement, he’s already leaning into Jaskier’s unexpected kindness.

Geralt goes to the bar to order more food for all of them, and by the time he comes back Eskel is smiling, throwing a very pointed look at Geralt as he sits down. Geralt ignores it, pushing bowls of stew towards them and watching carefully until Jaskier picks up his spoon. Sometimes the bard gets so consumed with conversation that he forgets to eat, and they really need all the sustenance they can get for the upcoming travel.

“I’m very excited to meet your other brother as well,” Jaskier says, fiddling with his spoon.

Geralt nudges him, gesturing to the stew. Jaskier rolls his eyes, but takes a bite.

“What was his name again,” Jaskier asks, mouth full of warm soup.

Eskel gives Geralt a mock shocked look.

“You haven’t been expounding on the virtues of our dearest younger brother? What neglect!”

Geralt grimaces, taking a sizeable swig of his drink. Fear, unexpected and hot, shoots through him.

“Have you seen him,” Geralt asks, voice too sharp.

Eskel gives him a long look. _Shit._

“No. Not all year. Why?”

Geralt clenches his teeth hard.

“Just wondering,” he tries, knowing Eskel won’t leave it alone. Eskel squints at him.

“What am I missing,” Jaskier asks, smile shaky as his eyes search Geralt’s gaze. Eskel’s eyes dart back to Jaskier as though just remembering the bard is there.

“Lambert is young and hot headed,” Eskel says, shooting Geralt a last questioning look before turning a smile to Jaskier, watching his reaction closely.

“He’ll either try to scare you or try to get you into bed.”

Jaskier’s blue eyes go wide and Geralt kicks at Eskel’s shin.

“What? It’s true,” Eskel laughs, kicking Geralt back.

“My bet is he’ll try to get you into bed,” Eskel smirks, eyes teasing as he watches Geralt scowl.

“I…was not expecting that,” Jaskier says, though his smile is not worried.

“I’ll make him behave,” Geralt promises, ignoring the sour clench in his gut.

“C’mon, Geralt. I can handle a little flirting,” Jaskier cajoles, leaning on his elbows and batting his pretty eyes at Geralt. His heart jolts and he hums noncommittally, gesturing to the bard’s bowl again. Jaskier groans something about witchers and “no fun,” but digs in with enthusiasm, listening as Eskel talks about his latest contract. He jumps in with a question every once in a while, and Geralt can see him filing the information away for later use in a ballad.

Eventually Jaskier’s eyes start to droop, and Geralt stands, suggesting an early night.

\---

A few semi-sober patrons throw startled looks towards them as the group makes their way up to the tavern’s second floor. The sight of a single witcher is uncommon enough, but the sight of two witchers is very rare and people are curious creatures by nature. Geralt sighs in relief as they reach the top of the stairs, out of sight of prying eyes.

“I’m there,” Eskel says, gesturing down the hallway to the left of the stairway.

“We’re that way,” Jaskier says, pointing down the hall to the right of the stairs.

Giving them a moment alone, Jaskier says 'good night' and saunters off down the hall, strumming idly at his lute as he goes. Geralt waits until he disappear s into their room before turning back to Eskel.

"What's going on," Eskel asks, sharp as ever.

Geralt avoids his gaze, glancing down the stairway to buy time.

"Geralt."

"It's not urgent," Geralt says, watching Eskel's gaze turn suspicious.

"I'll tell you when we get to Kaer Morhen," Geralt promises, and Eskel nods with uneasy acceptance. Geralt can tell that he wants to push, but instead he tilts his chin towards Geralt's shared room, quirking a brow. 

“We’re sharing a room,” Geralt admits, giving into the instinctive defensiveness, “saves on coin.”

 _Fuck._

“Oh, yeah. Of course. Space is _very limited_ in this fine, upstanding establishment,” Eskel says, waving a hand towards the many empty rooms along the hallway.

Geralt glares at him, completely at a loss for words.

“Not your bard, huh,” Eskel asks, too low for human ears to register.

Geralt growls, turning and marching after Jaskier.

“Good night, Geralt,” Eskel calls, voice jubilant.

\---

When he gets to their room Jaskier is already changed into his loose sleep clothes, washing his face in the basin of warm water in the bathing room.

“Eskel is wonderful,” Jaskier says, dabbing his face dry with a cloth. His hair curls slightly with damp where water splashed along his hairline. Geralt's fingers itch with the desire to _touch_.

Jaskier flops down onto the small mattress, flinging his arms out above his head and sighing heavily. Geralt quirks an eyebrow at the bard, trying not to smile at his bubbly excitement.

“And he certainly talks more than you do. I will be able to write so many songs just listening to him talk—“

Geralt's chest squeezes and he covers the sudden pain by turning his back on Jaskier and pulling his shirt off over his head to hide his reaction.

“I can’t wait to meet Lambert. I know you said he’s hot headed, but I think I’ll be able to win him over.”

Geralt doesn’t doubt him, though the anxiety curls back up in his chest at the sound of the younger witcher’s name. He clenches his shirt in his hand, fabric straining against his fingers.

_He would know. If it was Lambert, he would know. He knows his brother’s scents better than his own. He would know,_ he tells himself, forcing himself to lay his shirt down gently on a dusty cabinet.

Jaskier turning onto his side on the bed, curling up and mumbling for Geralt to join him. Geralt’s traitorous heart jolts at the soft request and he frowns, careful not to touch any skin as he slips into the bed behind Jaskier.

“Have you meditated today,” Jaskier asks, voice slurring with exhaustion.

“Go to sleep, bard,” Geralt says, ignoring the question. He hasn’t meditated. After the previous evening’s events, he doesn’t want to risk it.

Geralt locks his muscles as Jaskier shifts around to face him. In the dark he doubts Jaskier can see him very well, if at all, but Geralt can see _everything_ — Jaskier’s mussed hair, the tired droop of his eyes, his soft, pink lips, the way his undershirt has tugged down with his twisting, revealing dark chest hair—

“What’s wrong,” Geralt fumbles, unsure what to do.

“Could you meditate now? Like this?”

Geralt remembers that night along the coast of Talgar, where he pinned Jaskier to the ground and held him close, breathing his scent and basking in his voice.

He wants that.

And he suspects Jaskier would give it to him, but he has no right to that comfort. Jaskier sees him as a friend— he’s made that abundantly clear— and Geralt sees him as…well…

He has no right to take what Jaskier doesn’t know he’s offering.

“Try to meditate,” Jaskier asks when Geralt doesn’t respond, and Geralt finds himself closing his eyes as though it was a command.

He flinches at the first touch of Jaskier’s fingers against his wrist, but he quickly accepts the press of Jaskier’s palm against his, their fingers twining together against the small space between them. He debates pulling away, but the invitation of the bard’s comfort is too tempting.

He sighs, melting into the worn mattress. Remembering the previous evening, he focuses first on Jaskier’s easy breathing, then his steady heartbeat, and finally his warm scent. The nightmare haunting him slides away to a deeper corner of his mind— it’s place filled with Jaskier’s presence. Geralt hums with contentment, rubbing the pads of his fingers against Jaskier’s lute calluses.

“That’s better,” Jaskier mumurs, and the praise is honeyed agony, teasing Geralt with what he cannot have. He takes slow, even breathes, focusing hard so as not to climb onto Jaskier and pin him down again.

It doesn’t take long for him to slip past meditation into sleep.


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey finally begins.

His captive shifts and Geralt tightens his arms around the sleeping body pressed against his chest, squeezing their warmth close.

They sigh, dropping back into stillness in his arms, and Geralt runs a hand through their thick chest hair, palm having snuck up under their sleep shirt during the night. The slow, steady beat of a strong heart drums beneath his hand, lazy with sleep. He can’t remember ever being so comfortable.

Geralt takes a deep breath, ribcage filling with the familiar sent of warm skin and woodsy musk.

Consciousness slams into him and his eyes flinch wide. Jaskier’s back is plastered to his chest, having shifted somehow in the night.

_Fuck._

The bard is deeply asleep, and Geralt briefly entertains the idea of staying here and reveling in the feeling of Jaskier in his arms, then grimaces at his own vile selfishness. Extricating himself is slow work but with some careful maneuvering he manages to leverage himself off the bed without waking Jaskier.

Standing beside the thin mattress, watching Jaskier shift and resettle against the blankets, Geralt feels a sudden rush of fear. What is he thinking, dragging a human to Kaer Morhen? His own selfish desire to have Jaskier with him— all to himself— had driven him to ask the bard to accompany him. And now…

He stares at the smooth, strong muscles of Jaskier’s back, unblemished and pale, and thinks of his own scar-riddled hands. He thinks of the dangers of the Path, and the journal carefully tucked away in his bag. He thinks of the coming months hidden from the world in the cold fortress of Kaer Morhen, and all the dangers that will come after.

He should send Jaskier away— back to Oxenfurt, where he can teach music to eager young students from the safety of the university’s warm walls.

He tugs the thin blanket up around Jaskier’s shoulders, careful not to let his fingers brush against Jaskier’s exposed skin.

Jaskier sighs, curling into himself, and Geralt bites his cheek hard enough to taste blood.

\---

“Lambert is never going to let you live this down,” Eskel grins by way of greeting in the tavern bar, and Geralt clenches his jaw, both at their brother’s name and the knowledge that he and Jaskier smell of each other.

“It isn’t like that,” Geralt snaps, irritated by Eskel’s skeptical smile. Eskel takes a large bite of oatmeal, skeptical eyes digging into him from across the table.

“Isn’t like what,” Jaskier asks, munching on crisp red apple as he joins their breakfast table.

“We should head out soon,” Geralt prevaricates, raising a warning brow at Eskel.

Eskel grunts in agreement, pushing a bowl of oatmeal towards Geralt.

“We’ll make good time today. The weather’s still decent and the first couple of days aren’t too difficult. Once we get deeper into the mountain range travel will slow significantly.”

Geralt watches Jaskier listen to Eskel with an attentive gaze. He thinks, again, that he should tell Jaskier to go to Oxenfurt.

He opens his mouth—

“No,” Jaskier says, blue eyes piercing into Geralt’s.

Baffled, Geralt blinks at the finger Jaskier points at him.

“Whatever you’re going to say about the trip being dangerous and how I should rethink going— no. I’m going.”

Jaskier’s expression shifts suddenly and he glances away, fiddling with the apple core as his bravado evaporates.

“Unless you don’t actually want—“

“I want you to come with us,” Geralt says, gut aching at Jaskier’s concern.

The bard’s frown melts away and he smiles, reaching for a thick slice of brown bread and blueberry jam.

“Okay, that’s settled then,” Jaskier mumbles around a mouthful of food, beaming at him. Geralt wants to know what blueberry jam tastes like on the bard’s lips.

\---

Geralt sees his own antsy adrenaline mirrored in Eskel as they head out of the village. He’s always anxious to start the journey to Kaer Morhen, but this year the twisting feeling in his gut is tempered with a sour fear that he refuses to acknowledge. The sun barely reaches it’s zenith before Eskel cracks.

“You think the road will be smooth this year,” the witcher asks, no doubt remembering the pair of wyverns that took them by surprise last year. Eskel had earned a nasty scar across his thigh from that encounter.

“Hope so,” Geralt grunts.

He glances towards Jaskier, watching the bard walk along in front of them. He’s leading Scorpion, and the dark horse keeps twitching his ears back towards Eskel, loyal as ever.

Jaskier’s human ears can’t pick up their quiet words, and for once Geralt is grateful for that.

“We haven’t had a human in Kaer Morhen before,” Eskel says. “We’ll have to look out for him.”

A knot uncurls in Geralt’s chest and he gives Eskel a grateful nod. He doesn’t think Vesemir will disapprove exactly, but there’s a lingering anxiety— a “what if—“ that clouds his thoughts.

At least he knows Eskel will back him up.

Eskel snorts a laugh as Jaskier starts talking to Scorpion— telling the horse all types of embellished stories about his and Geralt's adventures this past year.

\---

Jaskier’s chatty nature makes the time pass quicker, though as the days progress he becomes less and less verbose. Eskel's smile becomes more strained, even if his actions remain as gentle as ever. The journal is a heavy weight in Geralt's bag, and he finds himself reaching to check that it’s still there at the end of each day.

Geralt’s nightmares continue, without fail, every night, even when he’s exhausted at the end of each day’s hike. It’s always a variation of the same nightmare. As soon as his eyes close he’s back in Talgar, trapped in that cave, or he’s stumbling through the fog searching for their camp, calling for Jaskier. The cave nightmares are always confusing and erratic— full of visions of torture and the faceless assailant taunting him; jeering and calling him a monster. The ones where he’s searching for their camp are equally disturbing. Sometimes he makes it back to the camp, and sometimes he wanders endlessly through stifling fog, lost and trapped. Reaching their camp is no relief though, because either he finds it empty and Jaskier gone, or he finds Jaskier’s body scattered in various pieces around the fire.

One particular night’s torture had him finding Jaskier standing away from their fire along the edge of a cliff. He calls Jaskier’s name and tries to run to him, but he’s trapped by the fog, unable to move. He falls to his knees, clawing at the freezing mud, trying desperately to reach the bard. He yells and yells but his words are smothered in the air, unable to reach Jaskier’s ears. He can only watch as Jaskier spread his arms wide and falls gracefully from the cliff’s edge, disappearing in the mist.

That nightmare had him choking on a yell as he startled awake. He had disappeared for a while into the forest, trying futily trying to settle his mind. Upon his return to the camp Eskel had gripped his shoulder firmly, eyes pleading for information, but Geralt had only given him a weak smile and started packing their bags for the day.

To make matters worse, he finds it nearly impossible to meditate now. He can manage for a few moments here and there, but nothing significant enough to do any good. He can feel himself becoming…unbalanced.

\---

They reach the familiar halfway mark of a deep, recessed cave halfway through their journey— decent time, if somewhat slower than normal— and Geralt finds himself grateful for the respite from the cold wind. The weather is changing quickly and Geralt can smell rain closing in on them. Judging by previous years, it will probably be near the end of their journey. The elements wouldn’t bother him so much if he could just sleep and get some decent meditation in, but as it is he can feel the cold creeping into his bones and making a home there.

Geralt and Eskel have frequented this cave every year for nearly a decade, so they fall into an easy, familiar pattern. They set up a warm fire and tie Roach and Scorpion near the entrance, taking their packs and lining them up near the mouth of the cave to block off some of the cold.

“I’m going to hunt,” Eskel says, tossing a small bag of seeds to Jaskier.

“Eat some of those,” he demands, giving Jaskier a “don’t argue with me” look. Something sharp jabs at Geralt’s chest as he watches Jaskier open the bag, fishing out a handful of seeds and giving Eskel a soft smile. Geralt frowns and reaches for his sword.

“I’ll go with you,” Geralt says, hating the idea of leaving Eskel to hunt alone—

“I’ve got it,” Eskel says, and the loaded glance he shoots Geralt tells him not to push.

_Hmm._

He opens his mouth to argue, but Eskel has already disappeared into the evening air, swift and silent. Geralt grinds his teeth and grabs Roach’s brush, running the bristles softly across Roach’s neck along the edge of her mane. She presses into the feeling, pleased with the attention.

Jaskier sits near the fire, munching on a handful of seeds before placing the bag next to him.

“You should have more,” Geralt blurts, pausing the brush to pet Roach’s cheek and savoring the softness of her fur. Heat climbs his neck and he grimaces at his clumsy jealousy.

“Not you, too,” Jaskier whines.

Geralt frowns, grateful that Jaskier can’t see his face.

“I’m fine, dear,” Jaskier insists, voice softening to something intimate. The endearment makes Geralt’s heart squeeze and he fumbles with the brush, focusing on maintaining smooth, even strokes along Roach’s neck, glancing out into the night.

There’s no one nearby, save a bird or two in the canopies. 

“You’re not okay, though,” Jaskier says, the words tumbling out of his mouth so quietly that Geralt wonders if he was meant to hear it at all.

His shoulders knot up and he turns his most bland look on Jaskier.

“I’m fine,” he tries with as much monotone as he can.

“Ridiculous, darling, come here,” Jaskier says, all bravado, gesturing to the ground next to him.

“Jaskier—“

“I haven’t sang in nearly a week, my lute is lonely, and it’s cold out. Sit near me while I sing,” Jaskier demands, pulling his lute from it’s case and firmly avoiding Geralt’s gaze.

Geralt’s mouth twists and he gives into temptation, kneeling near the fire several feet away from the bard. There’s a jumpy feeling in Geralt’s belly, like anticipation before a hunt, and he worries if he gets to close to Jaskier the feeling will bubble up and boil over—

Jaskier’s mouth twists like he wants to complain, but he just strums a couple chords before picking a soft tune. Geralt watches him, soaking in the warm flush of his skin, the nimble movement of his fingers, the glow of fire across his hair…

Geralt hadn’t realized how much he missed the sound of Jaskier’s singing…the soft thrum of his lute…

He shifts his gaze to the flames of their small fire, feeling the heat seep into him and loosen his muscles. It’s not long before Jaskier’s music has his eyes closing and he dips into meditation— mind clearing for the first time since the inn in Gwenllech.

The relief is immediate and immense, and he sinks down willingly as the world disappears. His mind clears, thoughts floating by without sticking, heart rate settling into an easy rhythm. Time is meaningless, and he drifts.

Jaskier’s lute stops and Geralt’s eyes jerk open— the peace he found snapping like a branch under too much snow. He glances around to find Eskel at the mouth of the cave with a decent sized boar slung over one broad shoulder.

“Found dinner,” Eskel smiles, eyes sticking briefly on Geralt as he steps into the cave.

Geralt takes a moment to settle back into his body, rolling his shoulders back and sighing, glancing at Jaskier to find the bard…blushing?

There’s a warm pink flush to his cheeks as he tucks his lute away, and he keeps glancing at Eskel as though he’s been caught doing something rude.

Before Geralt can question it, Eskel drops the boar by the fire.

“I caught it, you slaughter,” Eskel says, scarred mouth pulling into a gleeful grin as he watches Geralt blink at the carcass, trying to find his footing after such an abrupt end to his meditation.

Knowing how Jaskier balks at the sight of butchering animals, he takes the animal out of the cave, cutting it up quickly. They need to get to Kaer Morhen. Geralt needs to talk to Vesemir about this entire situation— not just the journal and the missing witcher, but the disruption to his sleeping and meditation. He grimaces at the thought, digging his knife into the animal with a little too much force. A witcher who can’t sleep and meditate is a dead witcher.

He pauses, looking up from the dead animal at his feet to stare out into the distance. The gibbous moon hangs heavy in the sky, partially obscured by ominous clouds.

A storm is approaching rapidly—he can smell it in the air.

He drops the butchered animal near the fire, catching Eskel’s gaze and holding it.

“Rain’s coming.”


End file.
